


Dinners With Al

by brightblue



Category: Pitch (TV 2016)
Genre: Gen, Mike/Ginny UST, Post Season 1, Probably this is pretty fluffy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-09-13 06:31:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9110719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brightblue/pseuds/brightblue
Summary: A series of dinners with Padres manager, Al Luongo, and his baseball children in the aftermath of Season 1. Someone's got to help Ginny and Mike get their acts together...





	1. A Meatball Sandwich

Al had always hated the quietness of hospital corridors, how damn still and peaceful they were. Even before Anna got sick. Even before that. Too many nights spent wedged in an uncomfortable chair, holding a tiny hand and praying for a fever to go down. Too many visits to players who had just blown their arm and any chance they had at a pro baseball career.

Hospitals felt like the front office telling him they were trading a key player to keep the budget down, no matter how it would affect the team’s mojo. It was like hearing Oscar tell him to start considering the next phase of his life or Charlie thinking that numbers told the whole story.  Doctors and nurses smiled, teeth gritted, in the face of terrible, life-changing news and then went on with their day. He didn’t blame them for it, for doing their job, but he didn’t like it. He didn’t trust it. Like he said. He hated the damn place. Too much hiding beneath shiny linoleum floors and industrial bleach.

No, hospitals meant his team dynamic would shift. They meant another player that would need home cooked meals and hard-won wisdom to get his ass in gear and rise above the emotional sink-hole he was about to experience. (Or, in this case, he supposed, _she_ was about to experience.)  The orthopedic wing wasn’t any less depressing than the rest of the hospital, though it lacked the fatalistic urgency. It was brighter. The docs and nurses were somehow younger and more attractive than those on the other floors, too. Still, it was just the same old story in a well-tailored suit. Deaths of dreams and careers ushered in by silk ties and white lab coats.

It was depressing as hell.

Ginny Baker’s room wasn’t any different. Al expected wall-to-wall flowers and balloons and other tokens of well wishes. Mike had sent a group text out late last night saying that under no circumstances were players to send Ginny flowers: **BAKER HATES FLOWERS. The next asshole to send her roses answers to me.** Then, a slightly more pleasant: **But she has seen woefully few baseball movies so pony up. I have the blu-ray player covered.** After that, Al had received a non-stop barrage of texts from different players arguing about what movies to get or if she’d like books or magazines too. He’d finally had to call his granddaughter up at UC Berkeley just to figure out how to make his damn phone stop yelling at him. Emma was the only person who was nice to him about things like that.

Al followed Mike’s moratorium on the flowers but only because he knew first hand how depressing it was to cart them all home from the hospital. And the _smell_...well, too many flowers in a room and suddenly he was at his wife’s wake all over again. He understood how that smell was too much for someone who had lost a loved one. So Al had erred on the side of a universal hospital truth-- the food was terrible. In his hand, he clutched a heavy, greasy bag containing one Dino’s famous meatball sub, extra sauce and cheese, as his offering and paused in the doorway of Ginny’s room.

Ginny looked small in her hospital bed. Nothing like the often cocky rookie who had such a large presence on his team. The room’s overhead lights were dimmed for the evening, a small reading light illuminating the Sudoku puzzle book she worked at with a pen as she bobbed her head to a beat only she could hear. Al watched her for a moment as she struggled to ink a number in with her left hand, her tongue curling against her lip in concentration. She let out a little grunt of frustration after a few failed attempts before tossing the book aside and flopping back onto her pillows and ripping off her headphones. She reminded him of every one of his daughters in that moment and something tightened in his chest. Probably it was the meatball sub he’d already consumed.

“That puzzle offend you in some way, Baker?”

Ginny’s face lit up as she observed him in the doorway. “Skip!” She scrambled to turn off the music still wafting from her headphones.

“Mind if I…?”

Ginny scooted herself upright in her bed, wincing only slightly, and gestured to a vacant chair near her bed. “Please. Have a seat.”

Al plopped the white bag he’d brought onto her tray table, letting it fall open so the enticing scent of marinara filled the air. Ginny’s eyes widened. Her stomach grumbled.

 “They not feeding you enough in here?” Al worried as he lowered himself into the chair.

 Ginny shrugged and did her best to maneuver the sandwich out of the bag with her one good arm. “I hate jello.”

 Al snorted. He took in the room. It was sparse compared to what he was expecting (didn’t a multi-million dollar Nike contract warrant at least a color scheme?) Someone had already shut up the blinds for the night, though he was sure Ginny would have quite the view of the city lights if they’d let her. On the windowsill was a big bouquet of sunflowers surrounded by a few handmade cards with scribbled crayon drawings: _Get well soon, Aunt Ginny_ one read in blue block letters and _To our favorite pitcher! We love you!_ on another. A few more cards were scattered about, though none of them possessed quite the sentiment as the cards from, he presumed, the Sanders twins. There was a tidy stack of DVDs on one end of the sill, sitting next to a shiny new player.

 Al watched Ginny as she got to work on the sandwich. She popped a stray fry in her mouth and considered the mess in its styrofoam container.

 “What’s the verdict on the elbow, kid?” Al folded his arms across his chest. He gave a pointed look to her arm, braced closely to her body.

 Ginny gave him a look right back. “Like you don’t know, Skip.”

 “I want to hear it from you.”

 With a sigh, Ginny stabbed at her sandwich with a plastic fork. Al considered asking if she wanted help; he honestly hadn’t considered that maybe a sandwich wasn’t the best option for her tonight. He figured he’d let her work it out, though, or learn to ask for help. That’s what it would take these next few weeks and she had to start sometime.

 “Doc says I got lucky-- a grade 1 UCL sprain. No tearing yet so no need for surgery. Just rest and rehab.” Ginny rattled off each sentence like she’d said it before. Of course Al knew her exact prognosis, probably knew it before she did, and what it meant for her future. She _did_ get lucky this time. What he wanted to know was where her head was at-- was she up for the work? He didn’t doubt she had it in her. She had already worked harder than any other schmuck on his team. But coming back from an injury, and after her roller coaster first season, well-- it was a different mindset.

 “So you’re looking at being a lefty for the next six weeks or so, right?” Al teased. Bored of watching Ginny struggle with her plastic fork against the formidable sandwich, Al swatted her hand away, grabbed a plastic knife, and began to cut her some bite sized pieces.

 “Can’t wait,” Ginny muttered, looking embarrassed at his help. “You know I can…”

 “No, Baker,” he waved a knife at her. “You _can’t_. Not right now. And if you’re going to get through these next few weeks and come down to Peoria even better than before, you’re going to need to rely on others for help. Got it?”

 Ginny’s cheeks flushed a little and she wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Yeah, Skip. Got it.”

 “Good girl,” he nodded and passed Ginny back her fork. In the silence that ensued, he contemplated apologizing for that remark because he realized it could be interpreted as misogynistic or condescending or whatever but, dammit, he was a father before he was a manager and Ginny needed a dad right now.

 “My mom’s coming to help,” Ginny offered up, almost as if she read his mind, after she swallowed a bite of meatball. “She’ll be in town the day after tomorrow.”

 Al nodded. “That’s good.Let her help.  Who’s your ortho?”

 “Crawford.” Wiping her mouth with a napkin, Ginny frowned slightly. “I thought he was the guy the team sent over?”

 Biting back a smirk at the name, Al leaned back in his chair and interlaced his hands behind his head. “The team has a whole host of approved doctors they can offer up. Sometimes players have their own preferences.”

 “Oh. Then how did--

 “Lawson,” Al chuckled. “Doc Crawford is the one responsible for keeping Lawson relatively intact these past few years. Good man. I don’t know of any other players that have used him; he’s relatively new to the field, into all that cutting edge stuff. Probably earned half his income from Mike’s busted knees.”

 Ginny bit her lip. “I just assumed the trainers or Oscar or someone sent him… He got here so quickly.”

 “Lawson probably had him on the horn before he left the field yesterday. He can be pretty persuasive when he’s not being an asshole.” Al studied Ginny’s face. She seemed to be struggling to keep her expression neutral as she connected various dots. As it was, he clocked a flutter to her eyelashes and the way her good hand adjusted the pillows under her immobilized arm. He wasn’t exactly surprised Lawson had called his man up to see Baker; players took recommendations from one another all the time and it wasn’t like Ginny had been around long enough to have an ortho on speed dial. But Ginny seemed to be putting a lot of thought into the revelation. Of course, she had a tendency to overthink everything. “Relax, Baker, Lawson set you up well. He’s your captain and, even worse, I think he kind of likes having you around.”

 Cheeks tinging pink, Ginny just nodded and went back to eating. As they sat in silence, a sudden thought struck Al.

 “Hey. I’m surprised that bulldog agent of yours isn’t standing guard here.”

 If Ginny had been struggling to keep her face neutral before, now it was positively stone. “Amelia? I fired her.”

 “You _fired_ her?”

 Giving her head a shake as if to shrug off his opinion on the matter, Ginny stabbed at her food with more force than necessary. “She wasn’t listening to what I wanted. She was all about selling my brand and making me money and sticking her nose into my family business when I _explicitly told her to leave it alone_.”

 Al frowned. “Making you money is sort of her job, Baker.”

 “Yeah. I _know_. But she just kept crossing the line-- it’s not her job to worry about my brother and what he’s doing!” Ginny slammed her good hand on her tray table, nearly upsetting her dinner.

 Leveling his rookie with a look, Al chose his words carefully. He knew he wasn’t in on the full story here but he’d also seen this play out many times before. “I don’t know what you’re specifically talking about, Baker, and maybe Amelia did cross a line. But I’ve seen her work her ass off for you and always in your best interest. That’s hard to find. Let me tell you. I’ve seen it go the other way far too many times. Talk to her. Set down some boundaries. But hire her back because it is her job to deal with the bull crap in your life so that you can focus on healing and rehab and getting your ass back on my roster!”

 Ginny wiped at her mouth. Al watched her foot tap underneath the blankets. He assumed that if she wasn’t currently stuck in bed with a bum arm, she’d be pacing the room.

 “Listen to me, Baker,” Al offered in his most humble voice, the voice he used to sway his daughters to his side of the family arguments for years. He rested his hand on her bed, just inches from her hip. “I’ve been in this show far too long. I know you want to be just another ball player, Baker, but you’re not. You’re something special.” Al paused and waited for Ginny to swallow back the emotion that had sprung up on her face. “You’re going to need people on your side who understand that, who know what it takes to keep you afloat in the great big ocean of garbage you’re going to have to deal with. You have Blip and Evelyn, I know. Lawson, too, for whatever that’s worth. And me, Baker. You definitely have me on your team. But you need an agent, a _good_ one.”

 Ginny let out a deep breath and swiped at her cheek. Al averted his eyes. He swallowed hard.

 “Thanks, Skip,” she whispered. She shifted on her bed and it was then Al noticed the plush teddy bear wedged under her braced arm along with the pillow. He didn’t recognize the bear from the merch booths though it wore Padres apparel. He thought again of his daughters and how no matter how big they got they were still, in so many senses, his little girls. Well. There he went again, getting all sentimental.

 “You like that sandwich?” Al cleared his throat.

 Shaking her head at him, Ginny dug back into her dinner. “Mmmhmm. Beats the rubber chicken they tried to make me eat for dinner. This is delicious.”

 Rolling his eyes at her less than impressive table manners, Al had to chuckle. “Dino’s meatball subs are the best. Always get extra sauce and parm. It’s the only way.”

 They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes-- Ginny doing an admirable job of polishing off the meal with just her left hand and Al squinting at all the strange devices in the room. He noticed that her phone kept lighting up with alerts, though Ginny didn’t seem bothered to check it. It was then he realized they hadn’t had any interruptions since he’d arrived.

 “Expecting any other visitors tonight?” He probed, standing so he could clean up her dinner. She nodded in thanks.

 “Either Blip or Ev are going to spring me in the morning so I told them not to bother tonight,” Ginny shrugged. “Most of the guys stopped by earlier today. I told Mike to tell them I really didn’t need more company. Salvi and Sonny kept trying to get pictures of me in my hospital gown.”

Al chuckled as he ambled over to the trash can.

 “Don’t worry, rook. I threatened itching powder to jock straps if anyone so much as thought about a photo.” Mike Lawson’s big frame imposed on the doorway. Glancing back at Baker,  Al couldn’t help but notice that the smile that lit up her face was of a much higher wattage than the one he’d earned earlier.

 Lawson continued to lean against the door jamb, chomping his gum, backlit by the fluorescent hallway lights. Baker shifted in her bed, sitting up straighter and adjusting her blankets. Her braced elbow nudged the teddy bear that had been wedged under it off the side of the bed and onto the floor. Al frowned and went to retrieve it.

 “Dropped this, Ginny,” he said softly, joints groaning as he bent to pick up the toy. It was then he noticed that the Padres bear wore a #36 jersey. Using one hand to push up off his knee, he slowly stood up and tossed the bear back to Baker, who looked a little flustered. Still, she gave the bear a gentle pat and tucked it under her injured elbow again.

 “Makes a good arm rest,” she said, her voice light and teasing. “Nice and fluffy.”

 Lawson’s eyes twinkled in a way that made Al distinctly uncomfortable but maybe that was just the florescent lighting.

 “Well, I’ll leave you kids to it,” Al muttered, not quite sure what he was leaving them to do. Only that he could read a room and knew it was his time to go. As he waved goodbye to Ginny, winking at her dimpled smile, Lawson stepped into the room and produced two pints of ice cream from behind his back.

 Ginny squealed in delight. “That better be cookies and cream, old man!”

 Al did a double take, thinking for a second Ginny was addressing him, but the young pitcher only had eyes for her catcher in that moment. She held her left hand up and easily caught the plastic spoon Mike tossed at her. Mike, who under normal circumstances would unleash his crankiness on whomever had the audacity to call him old, just let Ginny’s remark roll off of him and was even smiling at her. _Smiling_!

 “And I had them crush the chocolate chip cookies and brownie bits inside the ice cream. Special treat.” Mike slid into the chair Al had recently vacated like it was the most familiar thing in the world.

 “You went to The Baked Bear for me?” Ginny’s voice was oddly high as she grabbed for the pint Mike slid in her direction (though not before popping the lid for her.)

 “They have a stand at Petco, rookie. Don’t let it go to your head.” Mike kept his gaze on his own ice cream, a similarly crushed concoction instead of the company’s usual ice cream sandwich.

 Ginny’s eyes wandered over to Mike’s treat. “Did you get yours with Fruity Pebbles?”

 “Bug off, Baker,” Mike growled, holding his pint closer to his chest. Though Al noted his ice cream did in fact contain the children’s cereal speckled throughout. He winced. Didn’t sound like something Mike would like…

 Yeah. He really needed to leave.

 With one last thought, Al sighed and stopped at the door. “Baker.”

 Ginny looked up from her dessert, almost surprised to see him still in the room.

 “Sunday night. My place for dinner. 7 o’clock. Don’t even think about bringing anything.”

 Nodding at him, Ginny gave him another radiant smile. “Sounds good, Skip. Thanks again. For everything.”

 “Sunday dinner? What about me?” Lawson frowned at the rookie pitcher, knowing exactly what response was coming from his manager.

“Cook your own damned dinner, Lawson.” Al left the room with a wave in Mike’s direction. He couldn’t help but smirk at the strangely musical bark of laughter that trailed out the door after him.


	2. Spaghetti Carbonara

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ginny goes to dinner at Al's. A few things come to light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Dedicated to my faces, for everything.)

It was seven on the dot when Al swung open his front door to find Ginny Baker shifting back and forth on her feet. Her right arm was still braced; in her left hand, she clutched a small bouquet of yellow tulips wrapped in brown paper.

“Baker! I said not to bring anything!”

“I’m from the south, Skip,” Ginny grinned as she tagged along behind Al, struggling to kick off her sneakers somewhere near the door. She caught up with him in the kitchen and dropped the flowers unceremoniously on the counter, “and I just put my mom on a plane back to Raleigh. If I came here empty-handed, somehow she’d just _know_ and turn that plane right back around.”

Chuckling, Al led Ginny to his workspace. He watched as she took in the kitchen, feeling a bit of pride at his favorite room in the house. When they’d redone the space years ago, professional grade appliances and ample work space had been at the top of his list. The wine fridge and island with bar-style seating had been Anna’s request (“what else am I going to do while you play master chef,” she’d said.)

“Well, thank you for the flowers. Unnecessary. But thank you.” Al checked to see if his pot of water was boiling yet; it wasn’t. So he reached for his open bottle of wine and a second glass. He hesitated before pouring. “Are you still on the heavy duty stuff?”

Ginny shook her head. “Just ibuprofen.”

“All right then.” Al gave Ginny a liberal pour. “Now there’s plenty of debate in the wine community over the best pairing for carbonara-- a sparkling white? Riesling? A traditional Italian red? I say split the difference with a nice rosé.”

Al placed the glass in front of a spot at the island and gestured for Ginny to sit down.

“Thank you,” Ginny replied as she took a sip. “You’re making carbonara?”

Al nodded. The slight lilt in her voice suggested Ginny didn’t know exactly what that entailed but that was the whole purpose of this evening. He’d had many a rookie through his kitchen, most of them never having cooked anything more complicated than a grilled cheese. But baseball wasn’t forever and everyone needed to know how to make a simple yet impressive meal as far as he was concerned.

Noting that his water was about to boil, Al turned the heat back up on his skillet. “First, we fried up some nice, fresh guanciale. Don’t let anyone serve you this with bacon; that’s just child’s play.”

Ginny laughed and took another sip of wine. “Smells good.”

“Of course it does!” Al gave the contents of the pan a gentle toss. “Tell me, how is your mother, Ginny?”

With a shrug followed shortly by a wince, Ginny picked at an olive from the platter he’d set out. “Fine. It was nice she came to help, even if she could only manage a few days with her job and all.”

Al studied his rookie pitcher. On the mound, she was usually stone-faced and her pitches had few tells. Now, though, she positively radiated emotion. He spared a moment of sympathy for the young woman. None of his players came from perfect homes of course. Still, here was a girl going through one of the toughest times of her life (though, knowing what little he did about Baker, she’d been through worse before) and she needed her mother. But, for whatever reason, that didn’t seem to be an option for Ginny right now. He sighed. Well, they’d just have to make do then. One thing at a time.

Into the boiling water, Al tossed some dried pasta, being sure to point out to Ginny his preferred brand of store-bought spaghetti (as easy and delicious as homemade pasta was, he wasn’t expecting miracles.)  He then picked up an empty mixing bowl and cracked two eggs into it. Humming, he added two more egg yolks, checking to make sure Ginny was studying his technique as he separated out the whites. Wiping, his hands on a dish towel, he checked in, “Paying attention, rookie?”

Ginny sat up straighter. “Should I be taking notes?” The innocence on her face was in total contradiction to the snottiness in her voice.

“Easy there, Baker,” he laughed, waving a whisk at her. He whisked together the eggs, tossing in the pecorino and Parmesan cheeses, and finished it off with some salt and pepper. He listed off each ingredient as he went, attempting to keep Ginny’s cheekiness in check with his best coach face. His daughters didn’t easily fall for the face either but it was worth a shot.

“Now here’s the tricky part,” Al warned Ginny. Pouring with one hand and stirring with the other, he slowly added the egg and cheese mixture into the pasta that rested in the serving bowl, stirring all the while.

Ginny leaned forward on her good elbow, now watching in rapt attention.

“You gotta stir quickly to prevent the eggs from scrambling.” Al garnished the dish with some additional cheese and fresh parsley. “And voilà! Spaghetti carbonara!”

Looking impressed, Ginny sat back. She sort of lifted her sling. “Yeah. I’d try to make it at home but…”

Al gave her a long, hard look. “Do you give this sass to your teammates? Because if so, I am never defending you again.”

Ginny erupted in a loud, barking laugh.

Shaking his head at her, Al grabbed some plates and flatware. “What’s the update on your arm?”

Rolling her eyes, Ginny made herself useful topping off their wine. “I’m sure you’ve heard.”

“Assume I haven’t.”

Ginny grunted and popped another olive in her mouth. “The doc said we can’t even come up with a rehab plan until the six weeks is up. He said he’ll check it in two weeks and see how it’s going and we’ll know more then.”

“At least you don’t need surgery,” Al wagged a finger at her, leaning on the counter. “Could be worse, Baker.”

“I know. I _know_. But....”

Frowning, Al began to plate their dinner. “But what?”

“I worked so hard to get here.  And now I’m back to square one.” The words were barely muttered, as if Ginny knew she shouldn’t say them aloud. He gave her credit for voicing her fears, though. He considered that progress.

Al took a deep breath and wiped his hands on a dish towel. “Yeah. Well I’ve seen this dozens of times. You had a great rookie season, Baker. But just like any rookie, you’re going to have to come back in the spring and prove yourself all over again. Hopefully this injury won’t get in the way. There’s no way to know. Just listen to your docs. Put in the work. Get yourself back to fighting weight and, if that’s the case, you’ll be on my roster. Now this is assuming it’s still my roster…”

Ginny traced a finger around the rim of her wine glass. Her eyes narrowed. “They would be crazy not to—

Al held up his hand. He couldn’t help the wave of affection he felt for his young player. “Aye. Ginny. It feels like everything now but it’s just a game. It’s just a job. So they want me out the door? The fact that I’ve hung around as long as I have is luck enough. Maybe fresh blood will be good for the team. Who knows? I’m not losing any sleep over it. They force me out? I’ll just spend my days growing tomatoes and getting fatter. Fine by me.”

Ginny tilted her head at him in a way that achingly reminded him of his daughters and their 'oh, Dad…' looks. As if they really knew better.

Al shoved a heaping plate of pasta in Ginny’s direction. When he noticed Ginny’s nervous look at the food, he gave her a pointed wink and proceeded to cut up her dinner for her. He ignored the face she made and slid a giant spoon in her direction. Serving himself, he pulled a kitchen stool around the island and sat next to her. His knees bumped up against the cabinet as he settled but he paid it no mind. Ginny’s eyes slid in the direction of the formal dining room, where he had made an effort to set the table using Anna’s favorite china, but Al pushed forward. A fancy dinner was not what she needed right now.

“Eat up, rook,” he teased and slid a giant spoon in her direction.

“Thanks, Skip,” she smiled and scooped herself a heaping spoonful of pasta. She let out a little moan of appreciate, the spoon barely leaving her mouth before returning for another bite.

“Now,” Al began as he twirled spaghetti around his fork. “Tell me about how you got Amelia back.”

As Ginny detailed that story, Al half listened as they ate. The specifics didn’t matter. What mattered was the rookie taking control of her life and moving forward. The most worrying thing about the timing of this injury would be Ginny losing faith completely, letting the slip become a fall. As their plates emptied, Ginny switched topics to the apartment Evelyn was pushing her to rent and the training schedule she hoped to work towards. Her brown eyes glittered in the evening glow of the kitchen, happy and content. The healing magic of some quality conversation and a good meal. Worked every time. Al just sat back (as much as he could in his somewhat uncomfortable stool) and let the pasta and wine do its work. He was sure to emphasize his support over Ginny finding a more permanent living solution than a hotel room. Nothing was guaranteed but recovery didn’t happen nearly as well in an impersonal hotel room.

They had moved on to cheesecake when the conversation began to lull. Ginny’s tone became more clipped, her face a bit harder. Al had to wonder if whatever was troubling her was something she’d been able to forget for awhile or if it had been weighing on her the whole time. Talk of her recovery had surprisingly been most amicable so Al quickly switched the conversation back in that direction, looking for a new angle.

“Lawson’s been helping you out, too, I assume?” Al pushed his dessert plate away. He’d have to roll himself to bed if he even considered finishing it. As it was, he was going to have to suck it up and ask Ginny to locate the Tums for him before she left.

Ginny’s face clouded; she went totally still. Oh. Okay then.

“What the hell did Golden Boy do?” Al barked, swallowing back a burp. Well, this wouldn’t help with his digestion. Goddamn Lawson.

Ginny was quick to shake her head. She kept her eyes on her plate, pushing around the last few crumbs of graham cracker crust. Loyal to her knucklehead captain, as always. “Nothing. He did nothing wrong.”

“Then why the face? I know that face. That is the look of a woman scorned.”

Al regretted the comment immediately when Ginny shot him a look that was pure ire. He held up his hands. “I’m just asking if my captain is doing his job in rallying the troops. Last I saw him, he was bringing you ice cream so I assumed you were getting the star treatment.” Al thought back on that moment, the looks on his players’ faces when they saw each other. This whole female player business was new to him and he knew he was on shaky ground here. A part of him knew it wasn’t fair or right to assume that those looks meant something more than friendship but, oh hell, he wasn’t blind and Lawson didn’t go looking at Stubs like he’d hung the moon. Rarely did any player but Ginny get much more than a scowl out of the aging captain these days.

Ginny dropped the fork to her plate, the clatter not quite hiding her sigh. Resigned to the topic, she seemed to consider her words carefully before speaking. “He texts me. A few phone calls. But he’s been in LA.” Al raised his eyebrows. Then raised them even more at the face he was quite sure Ginny didn’t realize she was making. “With Rachel.”

“Ah. I see.” Shit, Lawson really was an idiot. Too damn sentimental for his own good.

Sensing she needed some time to process her thoughts, Al heaved himself off his stool and began cleaning up. Normally, he’d be barking at her to help but the worry on her face was almost too much for him to bear. He let it go.

“You’ve known Mike a long time...back when he and Rachel first got together, right?” Ginny didn’t meet his eyes to ask; she picked at a thread on her sling.

“Yeah…” Al rinsed their plates and loaded them in the dishwasher.

“Do you think Rachel is good for him?” The question was barely a whisper, spoken almost entirely into her wineglass. Al’s gaze shifted to the empty bottle, knowing Ginny probably drank most of it.

Al narrowed his gaze at her. “What the hell kind of question is that Baker?”

His harsh tone only emboldened her. Ginny sat up straighter. “Well, it was always painfully obvious that he wanted her back but she had moved on. And now she’s suddenly back in his life?  Poof! Just like that! And he’s had such a rough year! What with his knees nearly giving out, the near-trade, Livan on the roster... and, well, _me .._."

Al let out a long, pained exhale. “Lawson is perfectly capable of making his own terrible decisions.”

For a second, Al was worried Ginny might cry. Her face crumpled up oddly. Mike Lawson was lucky as hell he wasn't in spitting range.

“Baker, listen.” Al knew it would be better to bite his tongue but, well, maybe he did have more wine than he thought. “Mike met Rachel at a time when he most needed someone. It was the beginning of his career and he was this instant superstar, you know? And there was Rachel. She was good for him then-- pretty, smart, independent. Gave him somewhere to call home. Even if after a few years she wasn’t really there anymore.” Al checked himself. He didn’t really know what went down between Rachel and Mike; he had his theories, but he also knew far better than to play manager to a relationship, however much Lawson might need it. “Well, I don’t know. Good for him? They weren’t terrible for each other. Maybe they’ve figured it out.”

He couldn’t help but remember Ginny’s Lawson teddy bear when he saw dejection play briefly across her features before she chased it back with the last sip of her wine. With that little bit of liquid courage, she seemed to swallow back most of her bleak emotions as well.

“Yeah. Yeah,” she shoved her curls out of her face with her good hand. “Hopefully they have. But what Mike really needs is-- 

Clearing his throat to interrupt that surely dangerous line of thought, Al gave her a heavy look. Ginny caught it, panic flitting across her pretty face.

“I’m just looking out of the team. That's all.” It was amazing how small and young Ginny suddenly looked. And if Al was concerned about Mike's potentially confused and highly inappropriate feelings for the rookie before, he was now doubly worried that the impressive young woman before him was similarly lost. Spaghetti carbonara was not going to be enough to even begin to deal with this mess. 

“Of course you are, Baker,” Al patted her injured arm gently. “Never questioned that.”

Nodding mostly to herself, Ginny rolled her shoulders back and schooled her face into the intense, blank stare Al was most accustomed to seeing on the mound. When she flashed him a tight smile, he couldn’t help but give her a reassuring look back. She seemed relieved.

After a long moment of impossibly loud silence, Ginny cleared her throat. “So. Tell me about your grandkids.”

Unable to pass up a chance to brag, Al sat back down and warmed to his favorite topic. After all, there would be other Sundays.

  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These two definitely feel a little rusty but I had most of this written already so thought I'd dust it off. I have two more chapters coming down the pike, maybe six or seven total to close out the story. Stay tuned!


	3. Steaks and beer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all of those who are still reading! And for all the lovely reviews and kudos! Here's more Al but this time with 100% more Mike Lawson. Not a lot of Bawson in this but they'll get there. ;-) Also, not sure of the exact timeline for the end of the series (sobs) so I did my best guess because I am not mentally able to rewatch the finale just yet.

The Padres took a sound beating from the Rockies to close out their series and their last long road trip of the season. The team hadn’t quite maintained its flow since Ginny’s season-ending injury. It was no excuse for their current mojo, of course, but it was there all the same— Lawson skulking about the clubhouse like someone told him Christmas was cancelled, Sanders either sniping at the captain or icing him out, and the rest of his team running around like lost puppies on fresh feet, not knowing who or what to follow. It was miserable.

As Al dragged his frankly too old body off the team bus after their return from the airport, he caught sight of his captain fishing around his duffel for his car keys. His joints were aching and all he wanted was to open a nice bottle of wine and doze off in front of the game highlights (lowlights, more accurately, except for that one foul Lawson had caught that had Al wondering if he wasn’t gunning to join Ginny on the DL), but he supposed he could rally for a desperate cause. And Mike Lawson was nothing if not a desperate cause.

“Lawson!” Al barked as he ambled past the catcher. “Grab some steaks and meet me at my house. I’ll get the grill going.”

“But Skip—

Al waved him off. “No point. See you in thirty minutes. Pick up some beer too.”

He was quite sure the muffled swearing was not meant for his ears.

 

* * *

 

Just over an hour later, Lawson finally made his appearance. Al had situated himself in a lawn chair near the warming grill, everything ready and waiting for their dinner to appear. That the prickly All-Star was on his own time table was nothing new.

Mike barely acknowledged Al as he strode into the backyard like he owned the place, demonstrating far too much swagger for a man with a grocery bag in one hand. Mike glanced around the yard. His permanent scowl deepened into a frown. “Where’s Baker?”

“Whaddya mean?”

“Is Baker coming?” There was a note of trepidation in his voice.

Al snorted and levered himself up out of his chair. “No, Lawson. If I didn’t think you needed a good talking to, I would’ve been in my pajamas by now with a nice glass of Bordeaux.”

“You wear pajamas?” Mike’s pinched face contorted into something more amused. It was not an attractive look.

“We don’t all get asked to pose naked in magazines.”

Mike conceded a laugh and plopped the grocery bag down next to the grill. He unpacked the paper-wrapped steaks and handed them to Al. Then, from the bottom of the bag, he grabbed a beer. Popping the cap off with the edge of grill counter, he handed one to Al before opening another. “There are three steaks in there, so I guess you’ll have leftovers.”

Unwrapping the meat, Al raised his eyebrows at his captain. “Did Baker tell you she was coming here tonight?” It was more or less a trick question.

Mike knew it. He shifted uncomfortably. “Kinda. Well. She said she’s been coming over on Sundays usually so…”

“You’ve talked to her?”

“A little.”

“Define _a little_.”

“Jesus Christ, Skip! Is this an interrogation?” Mike began tunneling his fingers through his hair.

Al snorted. “You certainly look guilty of something.”

“I’m not…” Mike’s voice went up an octave. “I haven’t done anything wrong!”

“Your rookie is stuck at home with her arm in a sling. What are you doing about _that_?” Al took a sip of his beer and waited for Mike to crumble under the weight of his remorse. Because Al knew damn well that Lawson knew he was neglecting Ginny’s recovery to dither around with Rachel in L.A. for whatever misguided reason and Ginny was suffering for it. It was Al’s job to call his captain out for slacking in his duties, after all. Also, he’d come to like Ginny a helluva lot more lately than his curmudgeonly catcher. She certainly listened better. Al calmly scrapped the grill clean.

Mike rubbed at his beard. His eyes darted around, looking for an easy answer or maybe just absolution. “I’ve just been busy, that’s all.”

“With Rachel.” Al was never one to beat around the bush.

“Huh? What? You know about that?”

“Ginny told me.”

“ _Ginny_ told you? That’s, uh, that’s, uh, shit... _okay_ ….” Even beneath all that fur on Mike’s face, Al could see his jaw clenching hard.

Al slammed the Padres-emblazoned steel brush his granddaughter gave him down on the grill. Mike jumped. “What the hell are you doing, Mike?”

“Nothing!” But even Mike Lawson wasn’t that oblivious. His feigned ignorance gave way to contrition. “I’m not doing anything.”

“Exactly. Your team is free-falling down the standings. Your promising young pitcher is camped out in a hotel room, alone. And you’re trekking back and forth to L.A. when you are needed _here_.” Al slapped the raw meat onto the grill not taking nearly the usual delight in the sizzle it made. “Lawson, you are a fucking disaster.”

Mike rolled his eyes. “Really feeling the love, Skip.”

In answer, Al handed the tongs off to his captain. He nodded that he was giving up grill duty and collapsed back in his chair with a groan. He took a long pull of his beer. “What is it you think you’re doing with Rachel?”

“We’re taking it slow,” Mike answered in a carefully measured tone.

Al scoffed. “You were married for years. How exactly do you take it slow?”

“I just don’t want to mess this up again. This is my chance, Al. I want a family. A life after baseball.” Mike flipped the steaks. It was too soon, but Al didn’t comment.

“Oh, Mike…” Al rubbed his forehead. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on between you and Rachel. And not to get all Dr. Perry on you--

“Who?”

“Dr. Perry. You know… that fellow that Oprah was married to? With the talk show?”

Mike still wouldn’t look at him. He prodded at the steaks. “Dr. Phil, you mean. He wasn’t married to Oprah, just on her show.”

“ _Whatever_ ,” Al replied with no shortage of irritation. “At any rate—

“Please tell me this is not going to be a speech.”

“Oh it’s going to be a speech,” Al wagged his finger at Lawson. “And you’re going to listen and like it. I’m still the skipper around here.”

Mike huffed a little but there was a grin poking out of all the facial hair. It tugged at Al’s heart, an annoyingly familiar feeling around his grumpy catcher, as he was reminded yet again that Mike didn’t have a dad to sit him down and give him the what-for. Al’s father wasn’t especially good at it himself though that didn’t matter. It was the act of someone taking the time to consider your life from the outside that mattered, of knowing that whatever storm was raging in your head there was someone who could help you navigate it or at least throw a line. Every man needed a little guidance in life once in awhile.

“I know a little bit about marriage, Mike. Not because mine was the be-all, end-all. But because I worked on it for so many years. _We_ worked on it for so many years.” Al tilted his head up at the evening sky. He wondered if he’d have to get up to turn on the patio lights so they could finish up with the grilling before it got too dark. “Now I don’t know. Maybe Rachel is that girl for you. That’s for you to decide. But you’ve got a big life change coming around the corner and you’ve gotta ask yourself— is Rachel the lighthouse guiding you home or just a convenient port in the storm?”

“What’s the difference at this point, Al?” Mike gave the steaks one last flip. “I love Rachel. We can make it work.” He paused, mouth hovering open, like he was trying not to say more. But it was Lawson and so he kept talking. “Besides, you got lucky with Anna. She was an amazing woman.”

“Damn right she was.” Al tsked, beginning the chore of getting himself up out of the chair. “But I wasn’t lucky. I just wasn’t _stupid_. Anna wasn’t perfect and neither was I. Love and lust,” Al waved his hand in the air. “That comes and goes. Who do you want sitting next to you on the sofa when your sixteen-year-old daughter comes home pregnant, huh? Who’s going to keep you sane when your kid’s teacher calls every day because your son won’t shut up in class? Or when you have to consider relocating across the country before your daughter’s senior year of high school? And when a horrible disease takes her from you well before her time, are you going to be able to look into your granddaughter's eyes, those same exact eyes that have given you strength for decades of your life, and not have any regrets?”

Mike stood still over the grill for a long minute. Al wondered if the steaks would be overdone but couldn’t bring himself to care that much now.

“Well, damn, Skip.”

Al cleared his throat, swallowing back the thick ball of emotion there. “And you think you’re the only one who can give a speech.”

Mike chuckled. “Yeah.” He transferred the steaks onto a clean plate to let them rest. He gave a few half-hearted scrapes at the grill with the brush but seemed lost in thought. “You told me that I shouldn’t let my head get turned by a pretty young girl. That I was better off being loyal to the person who’d been there.”

Al struggled to track the reference. He thought back to the last time Mike had been stuck in his own head. Chicago. Of course. “That was a metaphor, Lawson. You know-- the _Cubs_ were the pretty young girl? The Padres the old stand-by? What the hell did you think I meant that _literally_?”

Mike’s face betrayed his confusion. Al wanted to shake him. Hard.  “I don’t know!”

Al laughed. The man continually surprised him. For however astute he was about baseball, he was dense as a post when it came to his personal life. “Sure, I suppose if you’re comparing Rachel to some of those baseball Annies you were running around with six months ago.”

“I wasn’t.” Mike’s face was dark.

“Then who the hell were you thinking about?” Al’s brain flashed to a bright-eyed rookie though, despite the numerous warning signs, he still held out hope his All-Star wasn’t that dumb. He took another look at Lawson as he helplessly chugged his beer. Yeah. Lawson was maybe that dumb.

“No one,” Mike swallowed, picking up the steaks and gesturing toward the house. “It was just a hypothetical thing. No one in particular. The steaks are going to get cold.”

“You come to my house _late_ , overcook the steaks, and then try to tell me how to eat them?” Al bristled, following behind the younger man. “Unbelievable.”

The men were silent as they plated up their food. Mike had grabbed a premade salad from the grocery as well so at least his dietician would have something positive to say about this meal. Al bit back a grin at the blush that refused to leave Mike’s neck. He wasn’t quite sure why it was there, but he knew at least something he'd said cut past the man’s gristly exterior to his gooey center. Anna had always had a soft spot for the young Lawson. Sure, she'd relished in the charm he so easily tossed her way, but she saw past the swagger to what Al saw too-- a kid just looking for somewhere, someone, to belong to. He’d found a home with the Padres, of course; Al just still wasn’t convinced Rachel was worthy of his heart. Oh, sure, the girl loved him. But she loved certain parts of him more than others. Anna, he recalled, had her own feelings on the subject:

_“There’s just something about that Rachel--”_

_“Anna! Give it a rest. They’re married now. Lawson’s crazy about her. He couldn’t keep his hands off her tonight. Frankly, it was a bit inappropriate if you ask me.”_

_“Lust,” Anna snorted, rubbing the rose-scented lotion she favored into her hands as Al climbed into bed. “Give it a few years. That’s my worry, though. Sure, they seem happy and in love, and it’s sweet to see Mike so besotted but…”_

_“Besotted?” Al teased, pulling back the blankets on Anna’s side of the bed so she could climb in. Once she settled, he tossed a few extra pillows onto the floor. Anna reached for the light. “And yeah, they’re happy, so...give them that!”_

_“It’s just…”_

_Al waited as Anna sighed into the darkness. She shifted her body around, trying to get comfortable. He bended the knee closest to her giving her more space, anticipating her icy bare feet seeking the warmth of his body._

_“You can tell the couples that will last. They’re on the same wavelength, you know? You can sense a connection.”_

_Al guffawed. “Spending a little too much time at Beth Anne’s crystal shop, huh, honey?”_

_“It’s a gift shop. With a focus on self-improvement.”_

_“Through crystals,” Al yawned. “Okay, whatever you say, dear.”_

_Anna rolled to face him. He couldn’t see her in the darkness of the room, those darkening curtains really doing the trick, but he knew without looking exactly where her shoulder would be. He ran his hand down her arm._

_“Mike is a good man. I just want him to be happy and grounded. It will take a very special woman to really understand his life, to see past that poster boy thing he has going on.”_

_“I think that big, fancy party they threw sealed the deal, Anna. That and those awfully expensive knives we bought them.” Al closed his eyes and hoped Anna’s overactive nighttime thoughts would quiet. “And Lawson grounded? Unless you have a magic crystal for that…” He chuckled at the thought of his cocky young catcher ever being made humble; oh, it would happen, that was assured. He just couldn’t imagine the kid ever being happy about it._

_Anna’s feet finally connected with his shin. Al bit back a grunt as she warmed them on his calf. He exhaled. Every night._

_“Well, I guess not everyone can be as happy as we are,”  Anna yawned, her voice trailing off into the darkness._

_Laughing, they fell into an easy silence and drifted off to sleep._

Al found himself glaring at his now aging captain as memories of Anna faded into a dull ache in his chest.

“Looks like it’ll be another October with no baseball.” Al couldn’t help but give voice to a little of his melancholy.

“Cheers to that.” Mike lifted his beer, his mouth still grinding away at a tough bite of steak. Lawson’s grilling was apparently for shit, too.

Al toasted him with a nod. He debated for a half-second whether he should bring up Chicago again. Test the waters to see if further regret or indecision was the root of Mike’s need to run back to a relationship that hadn’t worked in years. But, after years of steaks and chicken parm and even a few close run-ins with sushi, Al trusted Mike to share when he was ready. There were times the younger man needed his head knocked and times when he had to brood, to consider the paths laid out in front of him and choose one. Whatever that choice was, Mike would stand by it, face the consequences. Probably as a cranky asshole. But he would.

Conversation shifted to lighter topics— updates on Al’s family, Mike detailing the latest clubhouse gossip that Al might not be aware of already. They steered deftly around any mention of Ginny and Blip. Mike’s general sense of unease and befuddlement was soon overcome by his natural confidence as they talked baseball. Never was Mike more comfortable, never was his love for the sport more apparent, than when casually shooting the shit over the minutiae of the game after a few beers. To some (and probably even to Rachel, Al thought sadly), Mike’s not always well-balanced shift between obscure statistics and movie-worthy cliche was hard to follow. And sometimes it was. But if you looked past that, listened instead to the passion in his words, the boyish light in his eyes, you knew that this was a man for whom baseball was life. Most players moved on after the game. Retired players turned up everywhere: he’d known guys to find second careers in real estate and finance, to start up businesses or go back to school. They all retained a love of the game, of course, coming back for events, bringing their wide-eyed children to the ballpark, telling their stories, coaching Little League. But few really felt the need to stay entrenched in the sport. Mike Lawson, he knew, was someone who had baseball in his bones. He’d never be able to stray very far.

“Still thinking broadcasting once the knees finally go?” Al opened up the last round of beer for them as Mike cleared the table.

“I’m hoping they carry me through at least another season.” Mike shook his head as he rinsed plates.

With a shrug, Al rapped his fingers on the table. “Like those bastards ever do what you want them to.”

“They helped me make that sick catch on LeMahieu's foul today,” Mike said.

“You’re lucky you weren't wheeled off on a stretcher,” Al smirked through a sip of beer. That earned him a resigned grin from Mike, as the aging catcher slid into his chair with the stilted grace that could only be achieved by a protesting back and sore joints.

“Broadcasting, though, yeah,” Mike shifted the conversation back to what Al could tell he most wanted to talk about. The future. He wanted a plan. “I’d like to get better. Rachel thinks it’ll come with time, that it could be a solid future for me. Us.”

“His and hers make-up chairs.”

Mike shook his head with a choked sort of laugh. “Indeed.”

“Is that what you want, though?” Al knew Mike needed him to ask the question.

“If I got what I wanted, I’d be in this damn game with bionic body parts and a whole cache of rings and trophies.” Mike gave his beard a good scratch and then cleared his throat. “But if I can’t have that… Commentary sounds fun. For awhile. To get a little distance but still be in the mix, you know? One day I’d love...well, I’d love to keep doing _this_.” He made a vague gesture at the table.

Al frowned. “Oh Christ, Mike, I don’t know. Your steak wasn’t _that_ good.”

“No!” Mike laughed, a real genuine sound from deep in his belly. “Not cooking but, ya know, thanks for that. No, _this_ ,” he pointed between the two of them. “I’m good at this. I think. Knowing the game, the players, the strategy— managing and leading.”

With a soft smile, Al gave his captain a reassuring pat on the arm. “Yeah, Lawson, you are. Any ballclub would be lucky to have your brain. Your knees, not so much.”

“Any club?” Mike raised his eyebrows. “But I’m coming for _your_ job, Al.”

They both chuckled as Al muttered, “get in line.” Their beers were both emptied.

Into the silence, Mike ventured again, “do you really think I’m making a mistake getting back together with Rachel?”

“Holy hell, Lawson!” Al pushed himself up out of his chair. He emphasized every creak and groan for Mike’s benefit. “Decide that for yourself. You have the beginnings of a plan here, a pretty damn good plan. Talk to her. See if you’re on the same course.”

“Same course? An hour ago she was either the lighthouse or a port. Now we’re on the same ship? No wonder your metaphors confuse me.” Mike gave his body a big stretch. Al rolled his eyes.

“What? You want pictures and diagrams?” Al waved him toward the door, now very much eager for his pajamas and bed. The steak still sat heavy in his stomach. Probably why his damn dietitian kept warning him against late meals. And red meat.

“Sure, that’d be nice.” Mike pretended to think. “Definitely with a code key or treasure map of some kind.”

“Forget the metaphor. You’re lucky any woman would choose to deal with your personality.” Opening the door, Al practically pushed Lawson out of it. “And don’t be late tomorrow!”

Honestly, these kids would be lost without him.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, friends! I feel very rusty as I haven't written fic in quite awhile and then to tackle new characters... Well, hope this foray into Pitch was worth it! I have a few more chapters outlined of this and the arc I want to take, but it's meant to be more of a loosely connected series than a cohesive story. Constructive criticism is welcome! I tried to do my best to research Ginny's injury and San Diego and all that but I'm definitely not an expert by any means. Thanks again!


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